Authors: Stina Leicht

And Blue Skies From Pain (32 page)

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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Bran sat down in the grass. His eyes were that startling shade of blue once more. “I begin to like you, priest.”

“Thank you,” Father Murray said. “Is that why you’re here? To speak about what happened at the facility?”

“Not entirely so.” Bran combed the fingers of his right hand through his hair. It reminded Father Murray of Liam. “I’ve come to discuss the truce.”

“It will be extended.” Father Murray could have sworn he saw relief in Bran’s face.

“Good. The other holy men,” Bran said and then hesitated. “Did they find what they were looking for?”

“I believe they begin to understand my position in the matter at least. While they don’t necessarily believe, they do begin to allow room for doubt.”

Bran’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Then it was worth the price paid by all, Joseph Murray.”

“I think so—I hope so. Thank you,” Father Murray said. “I need to ask… Where is Liam now?”

“He’s safe.”

“I understand but—” Father Murray thought about how to explain his concerns. “Christmas is approaching.”

“Is there a problem?”

“This is a time of special significance for him.”

Bran frowned. “Is this about one of your rituals, priest?”

“I’m not talking about that,” Father Murray said. “Although, I do believe attending Christmas mass might help him. This is about the anniversary of his wife’s death.”

“Oh.” Bran’s eyes widened slightly.

“Exactly,” Father Murray said. “It wouldn’t be wise to leave him on his own.”

“And why is that?”

In Father Murray’s experience, it was difficult enough to talk to mortal parents about their children’s emotional welfare. He wasn’t exactly sure how he could explain the situation to a man who quite probably hadn’t heard of psychology, let alone believe in it. “He’s still grieving.”

“That is easy to see,” Bran said. “Nonetheless, there is another problem. A bigger one.” Worry etched lines in the man’s forehead. “He’s haunted.”

Father Murray blinked. The conversation with Father Stevenson popped to mind.
The Facility’s security was breached by spirits and not only the Fallen.
Father Murray shivered. How was he going to explain this to Bishop Avery?

“I wanted to ask… I need to ask you if you have a spell. Some sort of ritual which might protect him?” Bran asked, embarrassed. “I’ve done what I can for him. I have a talisman, and it is enough for one of our kind, but he was raised in your religion. I’m not certain he will—” He sighed. “My son needs comfort. He needs to believe he is safe. It is important. Do you understand?”

Perhaps he hasn’t heard the term “psychology” before, but apparently he has an understanding of the concept.
Father Murray said out loud, “I think I do.”

“Good.” Bran ran his fingers through his hair again. “Do you have this thing?”

“I do.”

“Is it… difficult? Would it require a high price? I will pay. Whatever it is.”

“It would cost nothing.” Father Murray resisted an urge to smile. “Nor is it difficult. A blessing might be enough. We should try that first.”

Again Bran seemed to relax. “Very good. How long will it take to prepare?”

“Not long.”

“Then we will go to him now.”

“How?”

Bran tilted his head. “We will travel in the twilight. No harm will come to you. I will see to it.”

“I don’t think it will work if he thinks it’s only a dream.”

“All right,” Bran said. “Then I will return for you later.”

“It would be best if I saw him alone,” Father Murray said. “Briefly.”

Breathing deep, Bran hesitated again. “If this is required for the spell. When can you be ready?”

“In my world?”

“Aye.”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

Bran nodded. “Call upon me when you’re ready. I’ll bring him to you.”

“In hospital?”

Nodding again, Bran looked resigned. “I will do what I must.”

“Can you keep him with you?”

“If not me, Sceolán will do so. I have already been away from the fian too long.”

“You don’t have Liam… here?” Father Murray asked.

“It is problematic for him to remain here for too long.”

Father Murray blinked. “Why is that?”

“It is safer for him to remain in your world until you’ve done your spell for him. That’s all you need know.”

“Do you know how he came to be… haunted?”

Bran’s eyes acquired that glitter again. “Do you need to know for your ritual, priest?”

Father Murray briefly considered a lie but had a hunch that Bran would sense it, and he didn’t want to chance destroying the rapport he’d worked so hard to maintain. “I’m merely curious.”

Bran got up. “I know why it happened, and that is enough.”

“I can accept that,” Father Murray said.

“Good,” Bran said. “I will see you tomorrow, priest.”

And with that, Father Murray’s dreams took different turns.

Chapter 17

Belfast, County Antrim, Northern Ireland
December 1977

L
iam shivered and held up the leather cord his father had given him. “What the fuck is this?” The peat fire popped and fizzed in the hearth, its glow heating the four-foot radius nearby to a survivable temperature. The rest of the broken-down place was a frozen waste. He was exhausted, and a headache had wedged itself behind both his eyes. At least his ribs were no longer attempting to sand themselves flat against his nerve endings.
It’s half past seven in the morning, for fuck’s sake,
Liam thought.
What is so important?

Glaring at the thin metal scrap hanging from the bit of cord, he noted the leather had been threaded through the narrow end which had, in turn, been twisted into a loop. Another thinner length of leather had been wrapped around the metal, leaving only the tiny knob on the wider end uncovered. It looked all the world like a horseshoe nail wrapped in leather.

“It’s a horseshoe nail wrapped in leather.” Bran went back to his breakfast.

The scent of boiled oats set Liam’s mouth to watering. He suddenly realized he was hungry. He gazed into his own bowl of congealing muck and thought the better of eating it. What he really wanted was a cup of strong coffee or tea. He settled for hot water and toast.

“Very powerful talisman, that. Keep the metal from your skin,” Bran said. “Being half mortal, you’ve a certain resistance. But iron will eventually poison you, nonetheless.”

“A fucking nail is supposed to protect me from Haddock’s shade?”

Swallowing, Bran nodded.

“You’re joking,” Liam said.

“Not about something as serious as this, lad.”

“I thought the Fey couldn’t abide iron? That’s what Aunt Sheila always said.”

“We have the use of steel,” Bran said, indignant as if he’d been accused of an intellectual failure. “Your Aunt Síle may be a powerful bard with great knowledge, but she doesn’t know everything about us. And what she does know isn’t always correct.”

“Then why is it you lot carry bronze spears?”

Bran stared at the fire. The smoldering flames were reflected in his eyes. Liam thought,
Or is it the other way around?

“Medicinal herbs can be used to heal, can they not?” Bran asked. “And they can be used to poison as well, aye?”

Liam paused, considered his experiences with drugs and then nodded.

“It’s all in the intention, the proportions, and the doses, you understand,” Bran said.

“It still doesn’t answer my question. Why does iron poison the Fey?”

The wooden spoon stopped halfway on its journey to Bran’s mouth. He returned it to the bowl. “Some will tell you it’s because iron is not native to Ireland as the Fey are, but they’d be wrong.” He swallowed. “In truth, the reason has to do with the forests.”

“What?”

“In order to smelt iron, you need a hot fire. Wood and, more importantly, charcoal are required,” Bran said. “The forests of Ireland were stripped by the English. So it was, we had very little steel. And so it is that the English won out against us long ago.”

“But what has that to do with anything?”

“We failed to protect the land entrusted to us,
Éire.
The land we took from the Fir Bolg, in truth. Many creatures died with those forests—elk, golden eagles, wolves, bats, and spirits of the woods as well. That loss is our greatest failing. And eventually became our greatest weakness, our lack of iron. It brought us low.” Bran set his ceramic bowl down on the freshly swept floor. The broken-down room had been rendered much more liveable as a result of his ministrations during the night. “The Fir Bolg number mighty magicians among their kind. One such placed a curse upon the Fey.” Again, his eyes glittered crimson, but before Liam could ask more Bran continued. “So it is that iron burns and poisons us as a reminder. The Fir Bolg name it
Éire’s
Revenge.” He shrugged. “Upon occasion, our old enemies have quite the sense of humor.”

“But you said—”

Bran held up a hand. “Steel is also sacred to us. Important. Our weapons are made of bronze because to war with steel would bring the final death among our kind. It happens from time to time. The Morrígan will have her due. But it doesn’t happen often and not without sanction. Therefore, we reserve steel and iron—sky iron and Northman’s steel are two such kinds—for particular needs. Magical needs. And some types of iron, like what I’ve given you, are more sacred than others.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That nail is made of sky iron and came from the shoe of the Mac Cumhaill’s horse.”

“What makes that so special?”

Bran sighed. “Give me your lighter, son.”

Liam fished his lighter out of Conor’s jacket pocket.

Bran wrapped his hand in the end of his linen shirt and then accepted the lighter. He held it up with his now bandaged left hand. Next, he took the leather cord necklace with the nail twisted on it and moved it close to the lighter. The nail swung up toward the steel lighter and stuck to it with a click.

“It’s magnetic,” Liam said, unimpressed.

“Aye.” Bran returned both lighter and necklace.

“And that’s supposed to help, how?” Liam asked.

Bran’s face acquired a patient expression. “When a mortal is killed by one of the Fey, a spiritual connection is formed. A bond. If the spirit chooses it to be so and the killing wasn’t in self-defence.” His father pointed at the horseshoe nail. “That will disrupt the connection for as long as you wear it. Mind, it won’t cut the connection altogether, but it will disrupt it. It will make you more difficult to find on the Other Side.”

Liam chewed his buttered toast drizzled with honey and thought of Oran and Mary Kate. “What if you’ve a… connection with a spirit that you don’t wish to disrupt?”

Bran started clearing the breakfast dishes. Liam hadn’t seen a man so concerned with cleaning in his life. He wasn’t sure if he found it strange or not.

“What sort of spirit, exactly?” Bran asked.

“Mary Kate.”

Bran’s face grew pained. “That is a very bad idea, son.”

“Why?”

“She needs to move on.”

“She has moved on. She’s fucking dead.”

“Exactly the reason why you must leave her be. You can’t hold her to you. It’s a selfish thing and will come to harm you both in the end.”

“Harm us how?”

Shaking his head, Bran sighed. “I can’t force you to listen. But you’ll come to regret it. I know.”

It was Liam’s turn to stare into the flames. “Oran said she needs me and I, her.”

“The other spirit?”

Liam nodded. “Oran was—is a friend. If he says Mary Kate is in trouble, she’s in trouble. I can’t leave her like that. I—I just can’t. She’s hurting something fierce. I have to help her. I love her.”

Bran shook his head. His eyes were filled with sympathy. “I understand why you feel you should, but you can’t.”

“You’ve yet to tell me the fuck why.”

Sighing, Bran stopped packing and crouched next to him. “When the shade touched you last night, what happened?”

Liam shuddered at the memory. “I don’t know.”

“You do. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Well, then,” Bran said. “Imagine how bad it would be if it were Mary Kate and not the other?”

“She’d never!”

“Or you to her? Understand, you can do the same to her that was done to you.”

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain

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